Her white fichu, chastely crossed over her bosom, showed only the graceful contour of a neck as full and round as a turtle-dove's; her morning dress of fine myrtle-green cloth marked the shape of her slender waist, which seemed perfect, but was likely to grow and develop, for she was only seventeen. She wore an apron of violet silk, with the pinafore which our village women have made a great mistake in abolishing, and which imparted so much modesty and refinement to the chest. To-day, they spread out their fichus more proudly, but there is no longer that sweet flower of old-fashioned pudicity in their costume that made them resemble Holbein's virgins. They are more coquettish, more graceful. The correct style in the old days was a sort of unbending stiffness which made their infrequent smiles more profound and more ideal. At the offertory, Germain, according to the usual custom, placed the _treizain_--that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver--in his fiancée's hand. He placed on her finger a silver ring of a shape that remained invariable for centuries, but has since been replaced by the _band of gold._ As they left the church, Marie whispered: "Is it the ring I wanted? the one I asked you for, Germain?" "Yes," he replied, "the one my Catherine had on her finger when she died. The same ring for both my marriages." "Thank you, Germain," said the young wife in a serious tone and with deep feeling. "I shall die with it, and if I die before you, you must keep it for your little Solange." IV THE CABBAGE